


Thunder Storm

by padasexy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Bottom Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Requited Love, Rich!Castiel, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Slowest of all Slow Burns, Top Castiel, Wingfic, rich!Gabriel, wingkink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padasexy/pseuds/padasexy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing he noticed was how the guy was only slightly shorter than him, maybe it’s his survival instincts, but he was unconsciously sizing up the guy in case he tried anything funny, though his impression had already assured Dean that he probably wouldn’t–well, except for the towel thing, which he still did not question. For living in such a high class home and wearing such an expensive suit, this guys hair did not fit the bill. It was extremely messy, bed-head hair that looks like it’s had fingers run through it a few times, but also a really dark blue-black color that’s almost stark against his creamy  skin. His low set eyebrows hung over dark blue eyes which probably struck Dean more than his hair. They were deep yet lacked some emotion in them–like they were tucked away somewhere, not to be shown to someone like Dean–But extremely blue, like no greens or grays or browns mixed in. Just pure blue, like the sky, or the ocean on a clear day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Storm #1

Dean was driving home from the garage when the first roll of thunder shook the air around him. “Damn it!” he swore, banging his hands on the steering wheel and glaring at many brake lights in front of him. Traffic was a bitch at this time of night, and Dean knew it. But he had wanted to finish fixing up the stubborn engine of a ford today, so he just had to stay behind while everyone cleaned up and went home. 

‘Yeah, great job Dean,’ he thought to himself. He could already see dark rain-heavy cloud rolling towards him like a ominous force. Dean hated thunder storms more than people hated spiders and clowns, which made traffic all the worst because he probably wouldn’t get home until the storm hit. 

When he finally pulled into his drive way, the rain was coming down in sheets, he counted the seconds between each deafening thunder clap and it was way too close for his liking. Bright light illuminated the porch every few moments; Dean took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he thought, ‘all you have to do is get to the door.’ 

He looked out into the darkness, counted to three, and pushed open the car door. Mud and rain water soaked his jeans as he somehow stepped in every goddamn puddle as he made his way to the front door. He felt in his pockets for the keys, and a horror slowly overtook him as he checked his jacket pockets, jean pockets. The keys were still in the car. 

This time Dean slowly walked towards the impala. His hands shook as he crossed his fingers and prayed to whoever was listening that his car wasn’t locked. That he hadn’t unconsciously pressed the lock down before he left; because the only thing worse than listening to a storm raging outside from inside his bed with the covers over his head and headphones over his ears, was being outside stuck in that storm in complete darkness. 

He slowly reached his hand up to the door, even though his fate had already been sealed. Through the window he could see the lock had been pushed down, but he still pulled on the handle fruitlessly. He ran around to the other side and the same thing happened. He peered in the window and could see his house and car keys stuck in between the seat. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, a habit when he was nervous. Despondently Dean stepped over to the trunk and sighed in relief when it was still unlocked from earlier when he had needed tools while working on the Ford. “Maybe whoever’s listening is taking pity on me,” Dean muttered as he spotted a flashlight wedged in the corner of the trunk. He was soaked to the bone with cold and rain and he flinched with every clap of thunder.

“Goddammit,” he swore for the hundredth time that night, he was basically screwed; just last week, his buddy Ash from the garage had installed a new security system all through Deans house. Every freaking window and door had a trigger that would call the police and basically make a huge problem. Which was horrible because before that Dean could pick the lock to the front door easily. 

A bright light shone from the upstairs window and Dean groaned in frustration. He’d left the light on and whoop, there goes his electricity bill, it probably won’t get shut off until later the next day.

Another problem hit Dean that made him groan internally. His little brother Sammy, the only person who would come pick him up, was still in California and wouldn’t be back until tuesday. Dean slammed his fist down onto the metal and immediately apologized to baby. 

He then realized how stupid he was being and fished his phone out of his jeans. He fumbled with it for a second, his hands were slippery, and then opened the lock screen only to drop his phone when an atomic bomb dropped, or thats what the thunder now sounded like. Swearing once again he looked down, only to find his phone in a mud puddle. 

By now Dean had written his own internal monologue full of every swear he knew. How was this his luck today? What did he do to deserve this? He laid his forehead down on the black metal of the impala and hoped maybe this was all just a bad dream. He looked at his muddy phone, watching as the screen slowly dimmed and then fuzzed out.   
Looking around, he realized he had doomed himself when he decided he wanted a house a mile away from any other civilization. Suddenly he looked up with a disdainful smile, he did have a neighbor. Every day he drove home he passed by a brick driveway, one of the only houses out here. Seeing no other choice, he set off down his long driveway in the pouring rain, pointing his flashlight every where out of nervous habit brought out by the thunder. 

Adrenaline was pumping through his limbs making them shake with every bright strike of lightning and boom of the thunder. turning onto the road, he knew it was only a little less than a mile to the house. Once he got there he could ask to make a phone call, maybe call Bobby or Ellen; whoever actually picks up the phone. 

Doubt starts to eat away at Deans thoughts, pushed along by his anxiety of the storm. What if his neighbor is a serial killer? Or a thief? He scoffed to himself, and started walking slightly faster. What did he even have to steal? Still, it was a mile walk until Dean reached a mailbox set up next to a fancy looking red-brick driveway and before seeing that, Dean had conjured up all these thoughts of a human centipede or a house of wax type person living in this house. That’s how all the horrible scary movies started out, didn’t they? Dark stormy night where no one knows Dean is stuck in the house of a psycho? But the thunder scared Dean more than any lunatic, so he continued his trudge up to the house.

Dean stopped for a second when he could finally see the house. He had his suspicions when he saw the driveway, but it was nothing compared to what he was seeing now. A grand . . . mansion was towering over his head, made even more ominous by the storm raging above. It was one of those fancy dancy houses that all the modern rich people were building. Complete horse crap compared to the old mansions he’s seen around the country. 

He wiped the rain from his eyes and squinted at the windows. Aha! A bright light was shining from the first floor. He looked around for a few seconds and, all of a sudden very full of doubt and nerves of what he should say to this rich, fancy person who could probably pay someone to assassinate him if the expensive looking boat and car–no cars–are anything to go by. 

Hoping they will take pity on him, Dean walked up to the big stained-oak door and reached for the knocker–seriously, a knocker? The thunder and lightening had calmed down slightly during the walk, but now all of a sudden lightening flashed across the sky, and huge clap of thunder reverberated through Dean’s chest and made him yelp in surprise. ‘Why me?’ Dean thought, ‘why am I being subjected to this now?’ He cringed at the onslaught of even more rain than before and the booming of the clouds above. 

He quickly slammed the knocker down a few times and waited with his eyes shut, not really sure when he was expecting the door to open, but after a few seconds surprisingly the door swung open and a bright light made Dean’s half open eyes squeeze shut again. He held his hand in front of his face for a moment, and then slowly his vision cleared and he saw a person standing there in front of him. 

The vaguely man looking shape is just staring at him, not saying a word. Dean starts to say something, but the anxiety in the back of his throat makes it come out as a garbled squeak. He clears his throat and tries again. 

“Hey, excuse me? Listen, uh . . sir? I’m really sorry to bother you at this time of the night, but I live just about a mile down the road from you, and I got locked out of my house and my car, and then I dropped my phone in a puddle and even if I hadn’t there wasn’t any service on it and I think the phone lines are down because of the storm and I really don’t like storms and I left a light on in my house . . .” Dean slowly trailed off when he realized he was rambling nonsense and this stranger probably thought he was a wacko, but it was storming and he hated storms and the anxiety was making him shake uncontrollably.

By now his eyes had adjusted and he could see the man; he looked young, relatively normal aside from the business suit he was wearing–of course, fancy suit fancy home fancy automobiles–but he was still just standing there, staring unblinkingly at Dean, still holding the door in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. After a few moments of that and Dean sputtering in the rain every time thunder clapped overhead, he finally spoke. 

“Is there something you need from me?”


	2. Stranger . . . Danger?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re thinking too much, just sit. First of all, I’m not going to let you sleep out in a storm, Dean,” He tilts his head, saying his name with just the right tone to let Dean know that he knows Dean doesn’t like storms, “And second of all, when was the last time you ate?”

Dean stared for a few seconds, comprehending his deep voice all the while flinching at the sounds all around him. Oh! He’d forgotten that he never asked what he had walked a mile through a goddam thunderstorm to get.

“Oh yeah, yeah, I was wondering if I could use your phone? To call a friend that can come pick me up? I really don’t wanna spend the night in the rain.” He chuckled a little before an oppressive boom made him jump. Of course by ‘friend’, he knew the only person other than Sam who would come get him in the rain late at night is Bobby, though he lived far. But what other choice did he have? Camp out on his porch?

The man gave Dean glance up and down before nodding, “I can get you a phone, but first, what is your name, address and where did you go to college?” 

Dean stood there, literally dripping from his hair to the ends of his finger tips. He opened and closed his mouth, and again, until finally his tired, disquieted mind gave up trying to form a question. “Uhm, my name is Dean Winchester, I live on 8802 Wesson Avenue, Lawrence, Kansas 67444, right down the street if you didn’t know. And, uh, I didn’t go to college, I had to save money for my brother to go to Stanford, he’s gonna become some big shot lawyer.” The corner of his mouth twisted up slightly at the fond memory or how hard his brother worked to get into such good school.   
Dean didn’t know why he was telling a strange man he didn’t know this information, but he asked the weird questions that have nothing to do with this situation so his mind doesn’t have time to dwell over how he should converse with this man.

The guy nodded once again, and then offered him something he never even imagined to ask for, “would you like to come inside and wait while I get you a phone? It’s quite dangerous to be outside in a lightning storm like this.” 

Dean pondered for a moment, after observing that this man was far from creepy, more the type to sue you for not putting enough expresso shots in his coffee, and glancing behind him to see a very inviting, warm, and dry room behind the guy, he decides it wouldn’t hurt to take a break from the anxiety of listening to the storm raging above. 

“Yes! I mean . . . are you sure? You don’t know me and I could be a serial killer for all you know . . . which I’m not, by the way,” the guy stared for a few more seconds, taking in Dean’s fidgeting and flinching at the rumbling above.

“You don’t look the type,” he stated frankly, and then stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with the hand holding his glass of wine into the house. Dean hesitated when he realized through the storm haze in his mind that he would get the pretty floors all wet, but the man seemed to know what he was thinking, because he said, “Just step onto the mat right there,” He pointed, and then stilled, “actually, wait here while I grab some towels, and take off your jacket.” That was kind of a forward thing to say to someone, but Dean was past caring at this point, it was a miracle he was offered the phone. The guy shut the door behind him and walked to a set a stairs that he couldn’t see where they led to. 

He shed his jacket as instructed, and proceeded to wipe his face of water and gather his bearings. He glanced around and saw he was standing in a very elaborate front room, one that would probably match the mansion rich people’s homes on TV; with it’s double stair case, beautiful paintings, and rug laying on top off a polished dark wood floor. 

His savior came back down the stairs with an arm full of towels which he unfolded and handed to Dean, and then did something that would have made Dean flip out physically and mentally. He threw a towel over Dean’s head, and started rubbing it into his hair to get out all of the water. In a normal circumstance, Dean would have the guy on his stomach with his arm twisted behind his back by now. 

But he was so shaken from all the time outside and he hadn’t realized his was cold until he felt warmth bleed from the strangers hands through the towel and onto Dean’s head. Around the same time Dean noticed he was shivering violently, and all he could do was stand there as the stranger finished his ministrations on his hair. 

He felt a weird buzzing within his temples, blaming it on the storm, he shook his head and it dulled slightly. His chest suddenly lightened, and he took a deep breath. All of the sudden everything felt clearer. He blinked up at the guy, suddenly everything was slightly clearer, he didn’t feel as tired and weak as he did a few seconds ago. In a small corner of his mind, a small thought popped up that he immediately shoved away. This guy wasn’t magical, and it wasn’t his touch that made Dean feel better. He decided he would try contact with this guy again before he left, just to convince himself of . . . he didn’t exactly know what.

Castiel then handed Dean a phone with the key pad already displayed, like he hadn’t just dried a strangers hair for them. Dean glanced up at the guy as he took the phone from his hands. He hadn’t taken in the rich guy’s face before he attacked him with a towel, but now he could clearly see all his features, hair, and suit in the bright light of the entryway. 

The first thing he noticed was how the guy was only slightly shorter than him, maybe it’s his survival instincts, but he was unconsciously sizing up the guy in case he tried anything funny, though his impression had already assured Dean that he probably wouldn’t–well, except for the towel thing, which he still did not question. For living in such a high class home and wearing such an expensive suit, this guys hair did not fit the bill. It was extremely messy, bed-head hair that looks like it’s had fingers run through it a few times, but also a really dark blue-black color that’s almost stark against his creamy skin. His low set eyebrows hung over dark blue eyes which probably struck Dean more than his hair. They were deep yet lacked some emotion in them–like they were tucked away somewhere, not to be shown to someone like Dean–But extremely blue, like no greens or grays or browns mixed in. Just pure blue, like the sky, or the ocean on a clear day. 

Wait, why was he so focused on the guys eyes, which were still staring into his soul. It would have been extremely awkward with any other person. But this guy didn’t even break the contact, even when Dean cleared his throat and then looked down. Still shivering, he dialed Bobby’s number and then held the phone to his ear, glancing at the stranger again to see those eyes still looking at him, before he heard a loud and long dead ring on the other end. He glanced at the phone and saw that all the service was down. 

“Shoot,” He held up the phone for the other man to see, “I think the phone lines are down.” Sighing, he looked around again and then met the other man’s eyes again. 

“Well,” he began, “I know you think I’m probably going to kick you out now, but you don’t seem like someone who would cause too much trouble for just one night.”

For the third time that night, Dean stood there with his mouth open, not totally comprehending what the man was saying. 

“Wait, you’re saying I can stay here? Me? Some guy who showed up at your door late at night in the middle of a storm?”

“Unless you have somewhere else close by you can go?”

Dean faltered for a second, thinking of any possibility to save this guy some trouble of having a stranger sleep in his house, before sighing in defeat. 

“Would . . would that be okay with you?” He asked, though the wealthy man got a look in his eyes that said he had already made up his mind and prepared himself for the worst. 

“Yes, now stop asking questions. Do you have a spare change of clothing?” He asked. Dean shook his head. “I’m going to need you to strip here on this mat so you don’t get water everywhere, and then walk into that bathroom right there,” he pointed to the right at a door about halfway shut into a dark room, “while I go get you a set of clothes, understand?” 

By this point, the dude’s strangeness didn’t phase Dean as much as it really should have. Any other house and guy he would have sprinted out the front door and back into the pouring rain. But something about the way this guy was acting, more ‘what needs to be done’ rather than care what he’s asking Dean to do. 

He faintly nodded, and the guy turned and gracefully bounded back up the stairs. Dean blinked a few times to make sure this was actually happening to him an not some fever dream. Once he knew he was just inside a very strange man’s house, he looked around a few times before quickly shucking his sopping jeans and throwing off his shirt which had been sticking to his torso like a second skin. He stilled his movements and listened carefully for any noise on the stairs coming back down. Shrugging, he walked to the supposed bathroom and flipped on the light. 

Dean is now standing in what must be the nicest bathroom he’s every been in. Beautiful wood sinks and a bathtub, so unlike the rusted cast-iron he’s gotten accustomed to. A mirror with bunch of tiny vanity lights was set above the sinks, and a window that probably would have looked beautiful with the sun coming in sat above the half bathtub half hot tub; only now, Dean could see lightening light up across the sky and once again tune into the thunder shaking the window pane. 

He quickly shut the blinds over the windows, his heart rate spiking. It’s weird how interacting with the messy-haired dude had made him actually forget about the storm for a few moments. He blames it on the weird situation and nice house.

So he waited there in that bathroom, wearing only damp underwear with no form of protection or communication. A slight knock on the door tells him the messy-hair has brought him clothes. Dean opens the door a few inches and sends the guy the most grateful face he can muster before taking the shirt and pants from his hands.

“When you’re done come into the kitchen,” he says, and then just turns and walks through the entrance hall and around the corner. Dean get’s dressed quickly in what appears to be never been worn boxer’s–if the tags still attached are anything to go by–a pair of extremely soft sweatpants that he hoped weren’t silk–give him a break he’s never owned anything silk in his life–if anyone knew he wore silk pants he’d probably die from embarrassment; and a regular old T-Shirt–which actually reminded him of the ones he usually wore on days when he didn’t have to do anything. It was nice after all the fancy unfamiliar surroundings. 

Dean cautiously exited the bathroom and following the same path the man did when he told him to meet him in the kitchen, wherever that is. He rounded the corner and was not surprised when he was met with the most marvelous kitchen he has ever been in. After seeing the front entrance and the bathroom, he thought the entire house would be one of those with so much unnecessary decorations and chairs and tables, seemingly impossible to need in someone’s life, but this kitchen was very much cafe high chair arrangement, surprisingly simple but very homey, much less preserved than the front of the house had been. 

The dark haired guy was facing away from Dean, at a closer look he could tell the dude was, cooking something? Dean must have made a noise or something because he turned around and smiled a little bit.

“Those pants are definitely not your style huh?” He chuckled and then went back to whatever he was doing over the stove, it looked like a pot of something. Dean stepped a little closer and finally found his voice. 

“Yea, uhm, I don’t frequently wear silk too much . . .” He trailed off, not sure what to say. This guy should be watching him like a hawk. Some stranger steps into his expensive house at night and he doesn’t even stop to make sure he hasn’t taken anything? 

“Yes, sorry, I was kinda in a rush when I gave those to you, they are clean, I can assure you that.”

“Thanks, I guess, but uh . . you didn’t have to give me new underwear you know? I don’t wanna make you waste 80$ on me,” Dean said awkwardly, knowing this topic was weird to bring up, but he did feel slightly guilty that the guy might think Dean expects that kind of thing. 

Messy-hair turns around for a second to grab two plates out of a cabinet connected to the island between them, “I don’t waste things, Dean,” He stares unblinkingly at Dean as he says this, and then continues his cooking like he didn’t just say the vaguest, freakiest thing ever. 

Dean flounders for a second, still suffering from his nerves with the storm, being in a strange house with an incredibly strange–though not murderous–wealthy man, and wearing pants that have the potential of seriously wounding his ego, until he turns around again. 

“Sit,” he points to a table behind Dean, where a two placemats, drink glasses, and sets and silverware have been placed artfully on a black wood table. 

“Oh, no no, you don’t have to feed me, I just needed a phone and I really appreciate you letting me stay the night and all, but I can’t eat your food.”

Messy-hair gave him a look that told Dean exactly what he was gonna say before he said it. “You’re thinking too much, just sit. First of all, I’m not going to let you sleep out in a storm, Dean,” He tilts his head, saying his name with just the right tone to let Dean know that he knows Dean doesn’t like storms, “And second of all, when was the last time you ate?” 

Dean looks at his watch and realizes he hasn’t since that morning. The look on his face must give something away, and the guy looks pointedly at Dean. His stomach decides this is the perfect time to growl that it’s hungry. Dean sighs, and messy-hair turns around to stir the pot once again.

Defeated and tired, he turns around and goes to sit in one of the chairs. They were actually very comfy, and paired with the soft, comfortable pajamas, the smell of food and the nice lighting, he felt much more at ease than he had ever been during a thunderstorm. He was definitely not connecting his contentment with the stupidly blue eyed guy making him the food, though he didn’t think too much about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated, constructive-critisism is graciously accepted and remembered. Sorry about the spacing in the paragraphs!


	3. Good Night's Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was the storm that was making him act a little strange, but suddenly Dean felt the need to show this guy he didn’t back down so easy. He lifted his eyes to Castiel’s, taking in the blue of his eyes–which were very mesmerizing– the sharp but smooth planes of his face, and his straight edged nose.

Messy-hair came to sit down at the table holding two plates with heaping mounds of spaghetti piled up with tomato sauce and cheese. Once again his stomach growled and he held his chin down in embarrassment. Way to make an impression on the proper guy, Dean. His conscience chastised him. Messy-hair just quirked his lips and then dug in. 

The only sounds in the room the clinking of silverware on plates and eating sounds. Dean tried to be proper. He carefully undid his napkin full of silverware, placed it on his lap and held his fork delicately in his hand; elbows off the table. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate like this. Maybe at Sam’s wedding. 

He wanted to show this guy–though Dean didn’t know why his opinion mattered–that he could be clean and respectable while eating. Though most of his meals were eaten in his baby, or on his bed . . . with his hands. Okay he didn’t know why he wanted to impress this guy. Speaking of which, he didn’t seem to be interested in much else than the plate of pasta in front of him. 

Until Dean started doing the same. Once Dean dug in, carefully twirling the spaghetti around his fork, messy-hair paused. Like he forgot a stranger was eating with him. Dean could feel eyes on him as he ate, but desperate for no awkwardness, he carefully cleared his features of any emotions, but he could feel a blush spread across his face as the guy kept staring. Finally he looked up into those soul penetrating eyes, and that’s when he spoke, “It’s funny you haven’t asked me yet.”

Dean stopped with the fork halfway to him mouth, “Asked you what exactly?”

“What my name is. It’s usually one of the first things people ask me you know.”

“Well, I uh . . . I didn’t think you would want some wet stranger knowing a lot about you.” He knew it was a dumb excuse, he really never asked because he was kinda afraid to know more about messy-hair. He could be more strange than he is already, he thinks, who else would allow someone like Dean into their home?

“Well, it’s Castiel by the way.”

“Well,” he paused and laughed in disbelief, “wait, what? That’s your name? I should have known. How do you even pronounce that?”

“What is that supposed to mean? And it’s pronounced Cas-tea-L”

“Seriously? I have never heard that name before in my life!” Dean figured ‘Cas-tea-L’ would have a weird-ass name. 

“Well,” Castiel looked at him with a smirk on his lips, “you obviously don’t frequent church much do you?”

Dean scoffed, “What? Are you the new Jesus? I believe in what I can see and touch, I don’t need to be preached to.”

Castiel’s smile only grew bigger, “If you were wondering,” he said, ignoring Dean’s mocking, “I’m named after the Angel of Thursday.”

Dean sighed, shoving more pasta into his mouth way less sophisticated than before. He could still here the rain on the roof and distant rumbles of thunder which put him on edge a little bit. Castiel, which really was a mouthful, was staring at him again. 

Maybe it was the storm that was making him act a little strange, but suddenly Dean felt the need to show this guy he didn’t back down so easy. He lifted his eyes to Castiel’s, taking in the blue of his eyes–which were very mesmerizing– the sharp but smooth planes of his face, and his straight edged nose. 

Now they were both just sitting there, looking at each other, no one looking away yet. Dean wasn’t about to, and instead of it feeling like an intense stare down, it was way more comfortable. So he didn’t feel it odd when Castiel spoke up, “You said at the door that you had a brother, are you two close?”

Usually he would break the eye-contact, but he wasn’t going to, “Yea, we’ve always been. I kinda had to take over the parenting job when Sam was still barely a teenager, so it’s been pretty rough. But I love the kid, he’s full knowledge. Probably could have gotten into Stanford with his big brain alone if we hadn’t moved around so much when we where little.” 

Finally Dean had to glance away and hang his head a little. It had been very difficult growing up with little food, housing, and without a sense of any security. That was when Dean started stealing food from the market. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he knew that he needed to keep Sam healthy, that was the only way he was gonna make it; is if he was stable enough to stay in school and get into a good college and get a good job and make good money. 

Castiel seemed to realize this was not something Dean wanted to talk about, when he glanced up again, he had resumed eating. 

“What about you?” Dean decided this guy was way too mysterious for his liking, “Got any brothers or sisters?”

“Only six,” Castiel said, like he was saying he had six bucks in his wallet. 

“Six . . .” Dean said in disbelief.

“Yes, all of them named after angels, just like me,” he shrugged, “My father was very religious, you might say.”

“Yeah, well, if their names are as strange as yours . . .”

“Only Balthazar is ‘strange’, if you don’t find the name Lucifer to be odd.”

Dean snorted and took a sip of his water–out of a way too fancy glass, he might add, “Yeah, totally not odd,” he pauses, considering asking Castiel the question he’s been pondering since he saw this grand house. What did this guy do for a living? But he didn’t want to be asked the same question in return. ‘Mechanic’ and ‘ghost hunter’ are not the most respectable things to have on a resume.

They finished the rest of their dinner in silence, Dean peeking at Castiel from the corner of his eye. It would have probably one of the best dinners he had ever eaten, but the thunder was still freaking rolling overhead had him on the edge of his seat. 

“You may use the restroom if you like before I show you to your room.” Castiel said. 

“No, no it’s fine I’m totally fine with spending the night on the couch,” Dean quickly tried to find a way out, he didn’t wanna owe any more to this stranger, “I don’t need a ‘room’ to stay in.”

“Dean, I insist, we have many guest rooms, giving you one out of the many is really no big deal. Besides, our couch is currently being occupied.” His eyes flicked over to the room adjacent to the kitchen. Through the doorway, Dean could see a huge room illuminated by a lamp in the corner. Laying on what looked to be the plushiest and most comfortable couch ever, was a huge bear. No, it was the fluffiest, biggest dog to every exist. 

“That’s our dog, Moose. I know, she’s pretty massive even for a Tibetan Mountain dog.”

“Understatement,” Dean breathed. All of a sudden, his limbs felt so heavy, the anxiety that had been eating away at his stomach made him feel like he was carrying a giant weight on his shoulders. He sighed and tried to show how grateful he was in his expression when he told Castiel, “Hey uh, Castiel? I would really appreciate it if I could hit the hay sometime soon, please?” He added with a second thought.

He told himself he was only being polite because he knew how generous it was for Castiel to let him stay the night, not because of the weird, thing they have. 

Castiel only smiles, like he was waiting for Dean to say that, “Right this way.”

If Dean was fully awake and his head did not feel like a bowling ball, he would been gawking at how truly awesome this guy’s house was. All he could seem to take in is a plush carpet underneath his bare feet, a staircase overlooking the rest of the spacious living room, where he could still see Moose like a, well, a bear sleeping on the couch.   
The rest was a daze as Castiel led him to a room–which was probably just as awesome as the rest of the house. Castiel didn’t question as Dean walked straight towards the bed and fell right on top of the sheets and everything. The only thing he heard before he spiraled into the darkness was a “Goodnight Dean,” so soft, he might have thought he was dreaming if it wasn’t for the soft pitter patter of rain on the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I cut it in half one because it was becoming way too long. This story has really taught me a lot about my writing style, and it will change as the story goes on as I try to improve so sorry for any stilted sentences, run on sentences, repeated phrases, and strange povs. Thanks for reading! Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! Oh! and if these chapters seem slightly drawn out and no real direction, it's because I was still mapping out everything, a lot of editing took place so if you notice any errors feel free to point them out.


	4. Storm #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean looked at Castiel in bewilderment, he expected Cas to drop the nice act and kick him out immediately come morning, he hadn’t exactly been the most entertaining guest, or the nicest. He’d though this, thing between them was just in his head. He still needed contact with this guy one more time, he reminded himself. Just to see if the same thing happens to him again.

Dean jumps up from where he was laying down on the bed and immediately lunges for the pistol in his nightstand before he is blinded by the unusual light in the room. He peers through squinted eyes and discovers he is in a room he has actually never seen before. A luxurious white queen sized bed is to his right, and the nightstand he thought was his own was actually a beautiful deep oak wood dresser. The memories from the night before slowly trickled back into his mind one by one. 

The thunder storm, the fancy rich guy–Castiel, who stared at him far too intensely even when Dean was doing the same, who tried to smother him with a towel . . . or well, he could have. Castiel, the one who had actually let him sleep in a grand bedroom that’s probably more expensive than all the motel rooms Dean’s stayed in combined, cooked him dinner, and payed no mind to Dean’s bad manners. 

He glanced down at the bed again, and saw that though he had probably slept in the worst position possible, his back and neck felt fine. And the silk pants that he was wearing were actually extremely comfortable. Oh god, he hopes he didn’t spoil himself into wanting wear them. 

He suddenly realized there was a presence in the room, whose movements were probably what had woken him up. He whipped around and Castiel was looking at him like you would a wild animal. 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel said. He was dressed even more fancily than he had been the night before.

“Jesus Cas! You can’t scare a guy like that!”

“I didn’t do anything, you are the one who obviously has trust issues. What, did you think I was gonna smother you with a pillow?”

Dean thinks back to his earlier inferring that Castiel would be some serial killer, “Well, Cas, you do live in the middle of nowhere and let a very attractive stranger sleep in your home, that’s slightly killer . . slash stalker behavior. Do you mind if I check and see if you have any people in your basement an–. . . why are you doing that?”

All of the emotion on Castiel’s face had been completely wiped off, his eyes were wide and and staring even more intently than before, if that was even possible.

“Listen dude I was just kidding about the murderer thing you kno–”

“What did you just call me?” He interrupted, still looking at Dean. He rewinded the conversation and cringed slightly when he realized he had accidentally given Castiel a nickname. 

“Cas?” Castiel asks, looking slightly out of it.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s an annoying habit, but you gotta admit your name really is a freaking mouthful . . hey I won't call you that if it bothers you . . .” Castiel was making him nervous with how he was acting, until Castiel shook his head. 

“No, no I like it. If you would like to call me by that name in the future feel free to do so,” Castiel suddenly reverted back to his normal strange self, he gestured at Dean to follow him before he turned and began walking out of the bedroom, “Just as long as it’s not “Cassie”, if you do, Dean, you might find yourself in the basement,” He turned his head slightly and winked at Dean. 

He faltered slightly at the wink, which was stupid because it wasn’t even meant that way and why was he thinking that way? He chuckled a little, “Okay even you gotta admit, that was pretty creepy murder talk right there. And, who calls you Cassie?” 

“Five out of my six siblings, especially Gabriel.”

“Are you the youngest?”

“Yes”

“Jeez, Thanksgiving and Christmas must be a blast.”

“No, they don’t bring me much enjoyment,” he says dryly, then turns to saunter down the staircase. Dean sniffs and laughs a little bit, watching Cas walk down the stairs, definitely not looking below his back, then averts his eyes to the view the staircase has over the rest of the house. 

The living room and dining room looked even bigger in the light of the morning sun, with golden wood floors underneath the really soft looking couches made the entire room feel warm and homey.

“Would you like to stay and have breakfast?”

Dean looked at Castiel in bewilderment, he expected Cas to drop the nice act and kick him out immediately come morning, he hadn’t exactly been the most entertaining guest, or the nicest. He’d though this, thing between them was just in his head. He still needed contact with this guy one more time, he reminded himself. Just to see if the same thing happens to him again.

“Are you sure? It’s really okay I can call someone to come get me, I think,” he racked his mind for who would be nice enough to rescue his ass. He could figure it out later, right now, all he wanted was food. 

“I assure you it’s no trouble at all.”

“Why are you being so” he knows he gonna regret saying this, but he needs to get it off his chest, “ . . . nice to me? You don’t even really know who I am. I could be a thief or something, and even if I’m not, I’m some stranger who came into your fancy house, wore your clothes, and ate your food an–”

In the middle of his rambling, all of a sudden a giant beast tackled him to the floor; he hit the ground with a huge thud and felt a wet slobbery tongue swipe up his cheek and across his eye. When the initial shock of being almost mauled passed, he blinked at the ceiling a few times before he noticed Moose, the bear-dog, just sitting there, paws on his chest and panting; the sides of her mouth curved into a doggy smile.

“It appears Moose likes you.” Maybe Moose had knocked some sense into his thick skull, but this guy had a very dry sense of humor while also being very, very proper. Almost painfully so, and his words were far more intelligent sounding than Dean’s. He sat up, and squinted at Cas. Taking in his very attractive features . . . not that he cared, and studied the way he held himself. He certainly looked like a scholar. 

Absently, his hand came up to pet Moose as he questioned Castiel, “Where did you go to school? You seem, well, very educated.”

Cas paused, hesitating for the first time since Dean had known him, he pondered, “Well–” 

He was interrupted by a couple of very loud firetrucks roaring down the road by Cas’s house. They were beeping their horns and wailing like they really had somewhere to be. 

Dean completely forgot about the question he was about to ask. A bizarre thought crossed his mind. Nah, he didn’t think he could be that unlucky in the space of only 24 hours.

His stomach choose that moment to rumble again. Castiel gave him a knowing look and gestured again for Dean to follow him to the kitchen.

Dean sat down at one of the tall chairs placed around the kitchen island. Apparently Castiel wasn’t one of those people who had an amazing kitchen but never used it. 

He felt slightly weirded out allowing Cas to cook for him, after all, he was usually the one who had to cook food for everyone. No one else knew how to make eggs like Dean, or even make anything really; especially not Sam. Dean thinks he’s set the oven on fire more than the actual fire pit.

As he watched Castiel cook, he realized the bed-headed man didn’t even need to think about what he was doing. He just grabbed random spices and ingredients and threw them all together.

As Castiel was reaching into one of the cabinets, the sunlight shown on his dark hair and slim figure. While having such sturdy arms and shoulders, from what Dean could see through the blazers, Castiel was very lithe. His hips narrow and movements light, like a dancer, graceful yet so casual that no one would be able to imitate even if they tried. Dean couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized by watching Cas move about the kitchen, when something along the wall caught his eye.

Maybe he was still frazzled from the lightning storm, maybe this unusual guy and his unusual house threw Dean’s mind all out of wack, because Castiel’s shadow on the wall was relatively normal, except for the strange shapes protruding from his back, They were large, and slightly . . . feather looking. What the hell? 

He whipped his head back to Cas to see there was nothing behind him. He looked back to the wall again and sighs. There is nothing there. He blinked a few times and shook his head, he knew the storm would have a lasting affect on him, he just didn’t know what it was until it happened. Usually it was just shaky hands and a anxious headspace, but this has certainly never been a symptom. 

Moose moseyed up beside his chair and nudged his hands with his nose. “How old is she?” Dean asks.

“About 4. I know, she’s already the size of a . . well, you know” 

“Well I guess her name kinda fits then.”

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Castiel asked. Dean glanced down at Moose and then back up at Castiel’s blue eyes.

“She just seems like a her.” He shifts his eyes away, embarrassed when he sees something like . . fondness in Cas’s eyes.

“Do you have one?”

“If you consider my moose of a brother a dog, then yes. He’s got the puppy-dog eyes down already, well, that and the 6’4 moose part.”

Castiel smiles slightly and then turns to toss something into the pan. “You said your brother was going to become a lawyer? 

“Yea, a great one I hope. With all the school I have to put him through he better be,” he said jokingly, smiling at the memory of Sam getting his acceptance letter, how happy he was. Dean was happy too that day, though most older brothers would be insanely jealous that their younger brother got the opportunities they would never have. But Dean was, he was happy and proud because he knew he was the one who had basically raised Sam. Helping Sam with his homework, stealing food from the grocery store to feed his hollow leg, wearing his own clothes until they were shreds just so that he had the money to buy Sam what he needed. And when Dean could no longer help Sam with his homework, he made sure he had a quiet place to do it with no mess and no distractions.

“You said you never went to college?” Castiel said, breaking him out of his thoughts, “Where are you employed then?”

Dean paused for a second, not sure if he wanted to tell this guy exactly what he did. It wasn’t exactly a posh life, not like what Castiel had, but he figured he would probably never see Cas again after he left this luxurious place, “I, uh, I work as a mechanic part time in that garage in town, fixing up cars and their engines old and new.”

His lowered his head in embarrassment, peaking at Castiel under his eyelashes to see his reaction. The usual faces he gets are disgust with a little bit of ‘you’re below me’ looks. But all Castiel does is hum with contemplative look on his face. 

“Do you have any other skills?”

Dean frowns at the odd question, “Uh yeah, I actually have a few jobs around town, I built houses, repair appliances, I’m even pretty good with cooking but it seems likes yours may top mine.”

Castiel still had that look on his face when suddenly it changed to controlled excitement, he cleared his throat before he said, “So, theoretically, you could, build a shed, fix up an old car, and cook meals for a family?”

Dean stared for a few seconds, Castiel’s mannerisms suddenly turned anxious, like he was nervous about something.

“Theoretically . . yes?”

Castiel just hummed, and then turned back to pan. He turned back moment later with two plates with an omelet on each, taking the hint that Castiel wasn’t going to question further, he let the subject drop.

They ate breakfast slowly, enjoying each bite. Maybe it was the fact that they were both thinking about how Dean would leave soon, or they felt something, a sense of contentment and comfort that they both felt just sitting their in the others presence.

Dean discovered that Castiel also knew a little bit about cars, even old ones. It was nice talking about it, no one else except for the grubby guys at the garage knew anything worth talking about, and even they only knew of modern models. Castiel loved old cars, and when Dean slyly mentioned his ’67 chevy impala, Castiel perked up slightly. That pondering look came back on his face.

Dean also learned, with a slight coaxing, how Castiel–the proper intelligent rich guy who really had little skill at social interactions–was a fan of Dr. Sexy. Dean prayed a silent thank you, he knew Castiel had more depth to him than he was letting on. 

Before he knew it, the grandfather clock in the living room told them it was already 10 o’clock. He shooed Castiel away when he started to clean up. Wanting to somehow show how grateful he was, Dean wiped the counters and cleaned the dishes while Castiel was upstairs doing something.

He doesn’t want to think about what might happen when he has to leave, but he mulls over how he’s gonna get Ash to get his butt down here from Nebraska, or at least send someone to disable the stupid alarm placed on his house that got him stuck here. But now that he thinks about it, it wasn’t all that bad that he ended up with Castiel. 

He almost wishes that he could– No. That’s stupid, why would Castiel ever want to meet up with him again. All the talk during breakfast was probably just an act. Though Dean tries not to think about the sincere look in Castiel’s eyes when he had talked to him. 

He needs to call Ash and see what he can do, or maybe Jo. He thinks he remembers something about her being in town. When Castiel comes back down the stairs he turns to him.

“Heya Cas? Can I borrow a phone for a second to check up on something?”

He hands him the phone and turns to walk back to the living room–where Moose is sleeping again–to give Dean some privacy. He doesn’t have a very unique gate, but Dean can’t help but watch. He feels this weird pull towards Castiel, like he should get closer, nearer to him. Which is very strange because he doesn’t normally like being around people, except for Sam, but it’s different than that. And that’s besides the fact he still hasn’t gotten the chance to touch Cas again to see if it does something weird to his head again.

He types Ash’s phone into his phone and holds it to his ear. He groans when Ash doesn’t pick up, remembering that he’s probably drunk or high somewhere. He tries Bobby. Still no answer. Finally, he steels himself and calls Jo, who, instead of answering chipper and annoyingly just because she knows he resents it, starts freaking out and talking a mile a minute. 

“Hey! Jo! Slow down okay, what did you say about my house?

“Where are you?! Do you even know what happened?”

“Jo, I’m down the street, what happened?”

“Why are you– never mind, Dean your house caught fire.”

––––––––––––––

After he hangs up the call with Jo, he slowly walks into the living room to see Castiel reading some book and unconsciously petting Moose. He looks up at Dean, his eyebrows knitting together when he see’s the look on Dean’s face.

“Dean, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“No . . no I’m fine.” He slowly sits down on one of the many couches.

“Do you remember how I got locked out of my house?”

“That is how you came to stay at my house if I can recall.”

Ignoring the comment, he continues, “Well, I guess I left a light on, or a candle lit, and it caught fire. My house is,” He doesn’t think he can say it without throwing something at the wall, “ . . well, it’s gone. In ashes.”

Castiel’s face was slowly getting darker and more stormy. He wiped out his phone and furiously typed something into it before setting it back down. Dean was taken back by surprise. He was angry, but not as angry at Castiel. He looked like he wanted to rip the couch he was sitting on to shreds. Which slightly scared him, because he hadn’t seen Castiel like that before.

Then, just as slowly as it had darkened, Castiel’s face slowly became less hostile looking. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.

As Castiel became less angry, Dean’s sorrow and anger grew to impossible proportions, his head clouded with his emotions and he couldn’t think clearly. Castiel looked up at his face again and his became sympathetic.

“Dean if there is anything I can do–”

“Don’t,” He cut him off and took a deep breath, his head spinning, “don’t worry about it, I uh, I just, I think I need to go.”

He grabbed his broken phone from the counter and started to walk towards the door, shaking his head. Too many things were going on at once. His freaking house burning down, Castiel’s weird emotions, his own heightened ones. His brain was clouded and confused.  
He felt compassion and gratefulness peak through when he breathed out and realized he was still in Castiel’s house, the one who had taken him in. Something that no one else would do.

“Thank you, for everything you’ve done, I hope one day I-I can repay you but ah, I need to see what happened exactly.”

Castiel had gotten up from the couch and followed him, through the hallway. He looked at him like he needed to tell him something, hesitation on his face telling him he was scared of Dean’s reaction. 

As he was turning the door knob, he heard Castiel come up behind him, pausing for a second, deciding if it was worth communicating his thoughts. Dean heard him speak quietly, and not believing what his ears first heard, he turns around, “What?”

Then, like they were forced out of him, Castiel spoke the words in a slightly louder voice, “You can stay here if you need to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Reading! Just to let you know I'm making this up as I go, I'm not really a huge fan of laying out the story piece by piece, I get new ideas as I'm writing and I just add them in so sorry if some things don't match up as well as they should. Comments appreciated! Tell me what you like and what you don't.


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